


Lawyers, Guns & Money

by begformercytwice



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 19:17:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/begformercytwice/pseuds/begformercytwice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short how-Seb-met-Jim ficlet, with story based on Warren Zevon's song Lawyers, Guns and Money.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lawyers, Guns & Money

His breath came in short, painful bursts. A few broken ribs, he suspected, and some bruised insides, but that could wait. His primary concern right now was the blood gushing from his thigh. He gathered the greying sheets from the bed and pressed them to the wound. If he knew where his belt had gone, he could have made a tourniquet.  
"Yeah, and if you weren't so bloody stupid, you wouldn't be in this mess," he thought, slumping against the wall and staring over at his broken mobile. If his father hadn't refused to help him, and told him he could rot, he wouldn't have flung the phone at the wall. If he hadn't been stupid enough to call his father, and think for one second that the old bastard would care; if he hadn't lost the money; if he hadn't cheated to get it back; if he hadn't brought the waitress back to his room; if he hadn't been too drunk to see the knife she had until it was too late...  
No ambulances. No hospitals. No authorities. He'd crossed paths with them one too many times in this godforsaken country already. Bleeding to death on a flea-ridden carpet was infinitely preferable to what the police would have in store for him. He felt his eyes begin to close. A little sleep, yes, that would be good. Some rest, and then he'd be right as rain. Before he nodded off, though, the bedside phone began to ring.  
"Hello?" he croaked, after mustering his last remaining strength to answer it. "Who is this?"  
"Never you mind, silly," drawled a menacing, yet light, voice. "I don't think you have time for formal introductions. Since you're not dead yet, though, I think you have time to tell me what happened. Go on. Daddy's listening."  
"I..." he coughed, then went on. "I cheated some men at cards. Russian blokes, real nutters, really bad idea. The girl I brought back here with me, she was with them, I didn't know. She stabbed me, and beat me up, and she took my money, my passport, the lot. I'm going to die here, and it's my own fault."  
"Get your head together," said the voice. "You're no good in this state. Tell me now: why would she leave you alive? Is that the usual practice of organised criminals?"  
"She... I... she needs me for something?"  
"Clever boy. No gangster would have left you breathing after you pulled a stunt like that. No: she's with British intelligence, as were her associates. I've seen her work before. She usually goes by the name of Anthea, I believe, but God knows what she told you. Anyway, Sebastian, they want you. They've been watching you, just like I've been watching you, and I've been watching them watch you. They're going to come back, and try to bring you in. They'd be there already, if I hadn't put a little trouble in their way. I won't allow them to take my prize. Can you walk?"  
"I'm bleeding from my thigh, I can't breathe, and I'm about to pass out."  
"It was a rhetorical question. You can walk. You'll be collected at the airport in half an hour. If you're not there, I'll know I was wrong about you, and that they deserve whatever they have in store for you. If you are there, though, you know that you owe me your life. From that moment onward, you belong to me."  
"I'll be there."


End file.
